Paper Cut
by AerrowLover
Summary: Sometimes it is the smallest of things that can be the most painful. "I saw you, damnit! I saw you!" "Darling, please-" "Do not call me that! Not after what you have done to me; you cannot call me that!" Arthur decides that enough is enough. Arthur/Eames.


**A/N: Yuuuup. Another Inception oneshot, another Arthur/Eames fic. But, this is back to my roots of Angstyness and away from the realms of Fluff. I seriously cannot help it. **

**As always, for wicked-freakin-witch. **

**Warning: contains swearing, angst, several random acts of violence, the obvious slash pairing of Arthur/Eames... **

**Disclaimer: Once again, I sadly do not own anything Inception related. That includes the characters of Arthur and Eames, and Messrs Hardy and Gordan Levitt too.**

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><p>Paper Cut<p>

_~Sometimes it is the smallest of things that can be the most hurtful~_

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><p>"I saw you, damnit! I <em>saw<em> you!"

"Darling, _please_-"

"Do not call me that! Not after what you have done to me; you _cannot_ call me that!"

The younger man stares at the older, a look of disgust on his face and a look of betrayal and grief in his dark eyes. He runs shaking hands feverishly through his hair, while just looking at the man who he loves – loved – and wonders what he had possibly thinking that caused him to act the way he had. The man who had just broken his own heart in the worst possible way.

He stands. He looks. He wonders.

"You didn't even… You didn't even _know_ him, Eames," Arthur mutters flatly, his voice sounding dull and lifeless to his own ears. The younger man simply feels numb. For the session of anger and rage was over, and now he just felt… Empty. Empty and hollow, and fucking _used_.

He blinks furiously, all the time staring at the Forger. Who cannot meet his accusing gaze now, ducking his head close to his chest. Arthur coolly observes the ripped shirt, the unbuckled belt and unruly hair and fights the overwhelming urge to grab said belt and hit the older man with it. But he doesn't want to have to approach the Englishman, least of all actually touch him. A weary sigh escapes from his mouth and again he wonders. Arthur just wants answers. He just wants to know _why_. Surely that is not asking for too much?

A quiet yet harsh snort at that thought. As knowing Eames, it probably _was _asking for too much.

The older man lets his arms hang loosely at his sides, and Arthur tries not to look at the frantic mess that is the Forger's shirt sleeves. He tries so damn hard but his eyes take everything in. He almost curses himself for being so observant, something his day job requires of him. Normally it is a useful skill, but at this current moment in time it is only a hindrance, because he cannot see what he is seeing and then try to dismiss the evidence before him. The truth is, literally, staring him in the face.

"Arthur, please," Eames breaks the heavy silence that had fallen and Arthur forces himself to tear his gaze away from the Englishman's disorderly appearance to look him in the face instead. But, dear Christ, Eames' lips are red and swollen, stark evidence of his recent crimes and yet the older man dares to try and act contrite; to act innocent? Arthur shakes his head slowly and Eames, seeing the action, attempts a step forward.

"Look, you have to understand-" he is interrupted when –

-Arthur laughs, a sharp and bitter sound that halts the movements of the other man. The Point Man laughs, because he cannot believe what Eames is actually trying to convey. Then he laughs because he _can_; because he always knew what Eames' behaviour was like and thus he should have expected this. Just like he should have expected all the other times.

He should not have allowed himself to become wrapped in his hopeful daydreams – yes, he will freely and readily admit that he does indeed daydream, regardless of his cold and collected demeanour. He should have realised that this was certainly never going to be a fairytale.

So he laughs, and Eames looks at him in concern, but the younger man can see the guilt that is as clear as the day there too.

"I do not have to understand anything, Eames. I always knew you liked a chase, but I never expected you to be such a cheating bastard."

A wince escapes the older man and he looks pained, yet Arthur longs to make him actually feel real pain. It is hypocritical for the Englishman to act hurt, Arthur decides, especially when what he had recently committed – and previously, too – was taken into consideration.

Eames again takes a step forward, and suddenly Arthur's attention is drawn to the blooming blotches of red decorating the older man's neck, visible because of his torn shirt. Arthur stares and he could readily testify that his heart is breaking. He bites his lips while he takes in the numerous bites which carelessly form a hazy pattern over the Forger's exposed skin. They look painful, the American thinks, and wonders how Eames reacted to them. The very thought prompts him to bite his lips again. Only harder this time.

"Arthur… I'm sorry." Eames' accented voice cracks and the younger man can hear Eames' breath catch, "I'm sorry. So god-damn sorry-" he breaks off, and Arthur watches as the Forger rubs a shaking hand of his own over his face. The Point Man does not doubt the apology or the sincerity behind it. But he just cannot accept it. Not now. Not _this_ time.

Eames is looking at him with his normally sparkling eyes dull and full of sorrow. Against his better judgement, a tiny part of the American longs to reach out to the older man and wrap him tightly in his arms and… And never let him go. But he shouldn't and he won't. Arthur will not offer comfort to the man who has caused him such grief that he has broken his heart. The man who he loved and believed loved him in return. A bitter, mocking smile twists his lips.

How wrong he had been.

Well, walking in on his lover with another man had certainly shocked him quite violently into reality. He had, of course, known that Eames who roamed and sought adventures, seemingly unable to commit. But he had also known that the older man had cared about him – or, at least, he had assumed so. Because Eames had clearly not cared enough to pass up on the opportunity for a quick fuck whilst intoxicated.

Arthur still feels empty. Still feels drained. He had to leave the room; had to get away from the Englishman. He can no longer stand even being near him right now.

So he is about to turn away when a desperate tug is made on his arm. Arthur is faintly surprised at how close the Forger had gotten to him so quickly. He looks into Eames' pleading eyes.

"I _am_ sorry," the older man's voice sounds hoarse and thick. But the American does not know if that is sorrow or alcohol's influence and soon discovers that he does not care. He pulls his arm away, in a single fierce movement that nearly sends the older man to the floor. Eames opens his mouth again, but Arthur is suddenly overcome with anger and grabs a hold of Eames' shoulders and pushes him into the nearest wall. Eames cries out as his head violently collides with the panelling and seeing the Forger so vulnerable and at his mercy causes Arthur to feel a vicious surge of triumph. He decides that he likes this feeling and soon his clenched fist (when exactly had he clenched his hands? He does not recall) collides with the side of Eames' face. The older man moans as the punch lands at the edge of his painfully bitten lips. A lazy drop of blood creeps down his chin and he makes no move to brush it away. Arthur wants to do it himself – he abhors untidiness – but he quite enjoys the idea of maiming Eames and having such glorious proof of it.

His reasoning is not wrong, Arthur candidly thinks. It's just not exactly _right_, either.

Eames has raised his striking eyes to look at him and the Point Man feels his heart lurch. He cannot handle this whole scenario. He hates Eames for his behaviour. But he hates himself even more for being with the older man, for letting things like this happen to him.

Most of all he hates the fact that he doesn't actually hate Eames.

Not even now. Not whilst he looks at him, with those eyes wide and mute with a lurid mixture of guilt, sorrow and fear. The younger man wants to reach out and stroke the bruised face and tell him he forgives him. He had done it plenty of times before. Why not continue this ridiculous cycle and say it again? Say it once more and with feeling?

Because he can't. Not this time.

So he hits Eames again, and again and again. Eames takes it, hands at his sides and mouth closed. He takes the violence fuelled by bitterness willingly and without a sound and Arthur wonders how they even managed to last this long.

They should have known this would eventually happen. They should have stayed away from each other, refused to become involved with one another. But Eames was a drug to Arthur, a highly potent one, and it had reached a stage where Arthur _needed_ the older man. His life had become inextricably tangled with the other man's, and the resultant mess was as sticky and as tough as a spider's web. Arthur, taking his own actions into consideration as well as the Englishman's, is no longer sure who the spider is and who is the victim.

But, he reasons, did it even matter anyway? They had to hack away the very threads that bound them together. Lest they were damned to Hell.

He tells himself this, but then he sees Eames' firmly closed, damned perfect lips and then…

Well. They were damned anyway.

So he hits the older man, Eames closes his eyes and the next thing Arthur knows is that his lips smash against the Forger's bloody ones. The American makes sure his kiss matches his punches – both are violent, and both prompt the Englishman to moan. The kiss combines teeth, tongues and lips and Arthur can taste blood all over his tongue.

Breathlessly, he breaks away just as Eames opens his eyes. The older man lets blood trickle from his lips and down his chin. It's quite hypnotising and Arthur forces himself to pull himself together; to organise his scattered and confused thoughts. It certainly does not help that he feels more than a little dazed.

"Arthur," Eames says, wrapping his arms around himself, "please…" The normally verbose Forger has been reduced to a few simple words as he tries to plead his case with his _damn_ gorgeous eyes.

"Eames," to his own ears his voice sounds harsh and unforgiving. Arthur forces himself to continue regardless as the older man sighs, "I understand your drinking. I understand your going out and not returning 'til late. I even get your sleeping around, regardless of how it may make me feel," a mocking smile crosses his lips and Eames opens his mouth. The Point Man carelessly holds up a hand to render the Englishman silent before he can even speak.

"It may seem astonishing to you, but it is actually the smallest of things that hurts me. You don't know the name of the man I discovered you with… You don't know his _name_, Eames!" Arthur laughs wildly, "Am I really that worthless, that _meaningless_ to you that you would cheat on me with a nameless and faceless man?" he breaks off, his voice noticeably bitter. He shakes his head, tightening the hold that he has on the Englishman. A small part of the younger man longs to pull out his totem, just to see if he is dreaming; if this is real. But he shakes his head again as the thought crosses his mind.

No matter how much he may wish it to be otherwise, this _is_ real. A clipped chuckle escapes his lips.

"You mean more to me than anything, Arthur," Eames murmurs quietly, and Arthur desperately wishes he could believe him.

But the rumpled and ripped clothes tell another story.

"Really, Eames? Do I? Because you certainly have a strange way of showing it," he sarcastically retorts, and Eames sighs. The older man looks exhausted, battered and _pained_. Arthur doesn't care. He clenches and unclenches his fists, the motion oddly soothing. The tips of his fine fingers are dusted lightly in drying blood.

"You know I love you…" The Forger whispers, and the younger man cannot help but be mesmerised by the Englishman's lips. Swollen, bruised and bleeding, they stand out vividly in the pale face of Eames. "I love you, Arthur. You have to believe me when I say that." Eames leans into the younger man, and Arthur inhales that familiar scent of cigarettes, lemon and vanilla – so gloriously Eames – but now alcohol is smearing it; coating it, and Arthur finds himself pulling away. He brushes away – none too gently – a hand that dared to hover next to him.

"You do not know the meaning of the word."

"I fucked up, okay?" now Eames' eyes flash and flare and his voice finally takes on an edge of anger. He rubs a hand across his mouth, carelessly leaving streaks of blood in its wake, "I've said I'm sorry. What else do you want?"

Arthur laughs bitterly, shaking his head. "It is not the first time this has happened, Eames. You fuck up, and you fuck up, and it never ends!" Arthur's gaze lingers on the torn clothes before resting on the older man once more. "What do I want? I want it to stop. Because each and every time cuts into me, and I do not know how much more I can take!" he pauses, his breathing loud and erratic. Suddenly he has his hands on the collar of Eames' shirt, and once again slams the older man into the wall.

This time, Arthur yells as he does it.

This time, Eames does not make a sound.

For a moment he stands there, breathing heavily. Eames looks at him, his eyes somehow bigger and darker than what they were seconds ago. The younger man briefly wonders if any hotel staff will knock on their door, informing them that their other guests have complained about the volume. He would not be at all surprised. They have made enough noise to wake the dead. And they hadn't even finished yet.

"You always like pushing me against walls…Don't you, Arthur?" Eames' voice sounds faintly teasing and the Point Man swiftly picks up on the use of the present tense.

"Just as your thoughts are always focused on a certain subject," Arthur curtly replies, and Eames laughs, a low, throaty noise that closely resembles a purr.

"I merely think about that. You actually carry out those…" the older man's lips curl, "scenarios."

He's leaning forward again, his head almost resting on the younger man's shoulders. Arthur's hands are at his throat yet he does not seem to notice. If he does, then he doesn't care. His words are hoarse and whispered and the American can feel Eames' breath against his cool skin.

Arthur swallows. His hold tightens.

Eames laughs again, but it sounds hollow and strained and he breaks his own spell. For the younger man blinks, and realises that he had nearly let the damn man trick him again. He had come to his senses just in time. For it _had_ to end. It simply _had_ to. Neither of them could allow this tragic cycle to continue, because it would surely mean the end of them both. But the American wants it to end on his terms. Hell, Eames had initiated the beginning. Arthur deserved this.

So he tips his head forward and places his lips over the older man's. Whose eyes widen yet his mouth willingly responds. Arthur allows a hand to be placed on his neck, but he reciprocates with digging his nails into the vulnerable and already bruised flesh of Eames' neck. There are gasps, which turn into moans – more of pain than pleasure – when Arthur sharply bites down on Eames' lower lip. He swears he can feel vibrations at his fingertips.

Before he knows it, again he had managed to pull himself free. And he _feels _that he has. Eames opens his mouth breathlessly, but Arthur raises his hand and places it almost gently against the older man's lips.

"I love you, Eames. I hate it, but I will be honest and admit that I do," the younger man sighs, "but you have to understand that every time you have fooled around, you have hurt me. And I will take no more of it."

Eames' eyes seem to glow feverishly as Arthur speaks. The younger man can feel the breath hitch in the older man's chest, and wonders tiredly if Eames can pick up on Arthur's own _lack_ of hesitancy in his speech.

"Arthur, please," the Forger says against the American's hand, "don't do this…" his voice trails away, and his lips leave a ghostly imprint on Arthur's skin. "It was a mistake. I was stupid! Just… Just don't go…" his hands clutch desperately at Arthur's waistcoat. "Don't go…" The last two words are uttered as one final plea.

Arthur supposes this is an accurate description. But his mind – his heart – is firmly made up. Nothing will change his decision. So Eames shall simply have to keep his words to himself, because the younger man is just not interested.

"Sorry, Eames," Arthur says in a clear, controlled voice. He sounds cold and heartless, but he believes it to be understandable. And justifiable, too –

-And maybe, just maybe, he is not sorry at all. He's sorry for not being sorry –

He gracefully drops his hand from the other man's mouth and loosens his hold on his neck. He spares Eames a glance, before pulling the hands twisted around his waistcoat off. Arthur dusts himself down, not looking at the Englishman. He refuses to look at the pain he is undoubtedly causing.

Yet, his mind snidely informs him, he should look. He should look, and enjoying shredding the fickle heart of the older man, because – as was demonstrated on various occasions – Eames had no qualms about hurting his so-called lover. Arthur smiles and tilts his head to one side. And he looks.

Eames' is gazing at him with wide, dead eyes. He reminds the American of a trapped deer in the headlights. A trapped deer who has decided to simply give up. The thought causes Arthur's smile to widen.

Just like a predator and his prey.

Damn continuous cycle.

"Sorry, Eames," Arthur says again, and a part of himself cannot believe how easy it had all been to cut himself free. He smiles. Yet when he catches sight of the new bruises forming on the older man's neck, the new blood drops on his chin… His smile stumbles slightly.

Eames looks at him, a lone tear present in his lacklustre eyes. The Englishman's voice, however, betrays no sign of his inner turmoil when he whispers softly.

"Please don't leave me."

"You will have plenty of others, Eames. You won't miss _me_," Arthur adopts a surprised tone.

"But I love you! Isn't that enough?"

Arthur sighs, suddenly feeling years older. He runs his hair through his thick, dark brown hair, considering. Slowly, he shakes his head.

"Arthur-"

"There are others. Always, there are others," a lone and harsh chuckle. "Until you get rid of them, then no. No, Eames. It is not enough. It really isn't enough."

Shame creeps unto Eames' face when he doesn't deny the charges made against him. The younger man finds himself shrugging his shoulders. Really, he questions himself, did he actually expect otherwise?

"Goodbye, Mister Eames," Arthur says curtly, and watches as Eames closes his eyes and slowly slides down the wall.

There is no resistance as he spins on his heels and walks towards the door. There is no shouting directed at him as he slams said door shut and walks down the stairs.

There is naught but silence as he hails a taxi and is soon driven away.

He does not look back.

Because sometimes it really is the smallest of things that can be the most painful.


End file.
